


Poems

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Poetry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 05:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim, Blair, some poetry, some sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poems

##  Poems 

by  
Daphna  


Author's website: <http://www.geocities.com/athens/2642/sentinel.htm>

Disclaimers: Disclaimer: The Sentinel and all its characters do not, unfortunately belong to me. They belong to Pet Fly Productions and UPN. No infringement was intended, no money exchanged hands. 

The poems in this story are by Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. The first is "I like you to be still..." and the second is "Morning". I transcribed them from the soundtrack of the movie "Il Postino". I don't know who translated them. Neruda was not, as far as I know, gay, and these poems were written for a woman, just so no one goes accusing me of anything. 

* * *

Jim practically slammed the door to the loft as he walked in. He threw his keys into the basket, and took his jacket off before accepting the warm, sweet smelling bundle into his arms and kissing it's hair gently. After a moment he broke away, the scent too sweet, too strong for the moment. Two expectant blue eyes looked up at him. 

"Oh, God! We were supposed to go out tonight." Jim said, his eyes wide with the sudden realation. "Blair, I'm so sorry to do this to you but I'm so tired, I don't think I can handle it. Can we possibly do it another night?" 

To his surprise the joy didn't drain out of Blair's eyes. 

"Sure, Jim. I'm not really much in the mood for going out either. I feel like staying home, with you." Blair's voice got just a shade deeper as he said that, as if suddenly coming from deep in his throat. 

"Go and take a shower. You look like you need it." Jim sighed in relief. A shower and a night at home with Blair was just what he needed. 

* * *

As Jim got out of the bathroom, he could smell candles, with a very subtle fragrance mixed in, of vanilla and coffee. He walked downstairs into a living room lit only by the candles. The warm light glistened on two glasses, filled with white wine, moisture beads shining on them. 

"Oh god, Blair." He whispered. He sat down on the couch, where Blair was already seated, wearing only boxers. Blair took one of the glasses and placed it in Jim's hand, then he took the other for himself. 

"To you." He whispered. 

"To us." Jim replied. The glasses touched, and they each drank, just a sip. Jim placed both glasses back on the table and moved in to kiss Blair gently. 

"Wait. There's something I want you to hear, first." Blair said, his voice faltering. He wasn't sure that he should really be doing this. Jim kissed Blair's neck, lying nearly all the way down on his side, and holding Blair close to him, so that Blair's neck was in line with Jim's mouth. 

"It's a poem. I... I read it today, and I thought of you." Blair continued. He reached for a poetry book from the table, and Jim could feel Blair's heart pound against his bare chest. 

"Whisper it, Blair, into my ear." Jim said, and kissed Blair's neck once again. He closed his eyes, letting the heat envelope him, the sweet intoxicating smell of Blair, the taste of Blair, mixed with the wine, in his mouth. And then Blair started: 

I like for you to be still.  
It is as though you are absent.  
And you hear me from far away,  
And my voice does not touch you.  
It seems as though your eyes have flown away,  
And it seems that a kiss has sealed your mouth.

Blair was so close, Jim could feel more than hear the words, the rush of air in and out of his lover's mouth beating gently against his skin. He wondered if Blair knew how closely this poem described a zone-out, and was he realizing that with every word he was driving Jim closer and closer to one, but it didn't really matter. 

As all things are filled with my soul,  
You emerge from the things filled with my soul.  
You are like my soul,  
A butterfly of dream and you are like the word  
"Melancholy".

I like for you to be still and you seem far away.   
It sounds as though you are lamenting,   
A butterfly cooing like a dove.   
And you hear me from far away,   
And my voice does not reach you.   
Let me come to be still in your silence 

And let me talk to you with your silence, that is bright as a lamp,   
Simple as a ring. 

"Oh, Blair." Jim whispered. He kissed Blair's neck almost as a reflex. It was an invitation, and he drowned in it as the words continued to drop against his ear. 

You are like the night,  
With it's stillness and constellations.  
Your silence is that of a star,  
As remote and candid.  
I like for you to be still.  
It is as though you are absent,  
Distant and full of sorrow  
As though you had died.  
One word then, one smile  
Is enough, and I'm happy.  
Happy, that it is not true.

Jim looked up into Blair's eyes. There were love, sorrow and lust, all mixed in together. He knew he had to find the words, the words that would let the sorrow go. But he knew nothing else to say, nothing but: "I love you." 

He whispered the words, looking at Blair, knowing, for certain, that there was so much more than just lust here, so much more than just chemistry. He wanted to be able to tell Blair how beautiful he was, how much it meant to have him there, to come home and find him. But he wasn't a man of words. He couldn't find a way to say that would make it half as meaningful as it was. He looked at those eyes, expectant, at the full, quivering lips, and he said it in the only way he could. 

He pressed his lips against Blair's, seeking entrance into the warm cavern that lay beyond, and getting it. The sweet, warm tongue reached out for his and pulled him in, enveloping him in sweetness, filling him, taking over him, finally forcing him to break for breath. 

His hands moved up into Blair's hair, staying there, gently moving through the soft curls, just as Blair's hands moved down on Jim's body, the well learned hands of a lover. 

Jim moved in for another kiss, then gasped as those hands pulled his nipples, teasing them. He locked on to Blair's neck, kissing, then sucking, feeling Blair gasp at the exquisite pain. Blair started moving down, slithering lower and the sofa to lick first Jim's now-hard nipples, then his beautiful, hard stomach. 

Left with nothing to kiss Jim lay back, still, trusting himself in Blair's capable hands. He closed his eyes, and prepared for the sensory overload that was bound to come. Already his mouth was filled with the myriad of tastes that made up Blair, his nose filled with the scent of shampoo, sweat, candles, and the musk of their arousal. His ears filled with the sound of Blair's suckling, of his own uncontrollable moaning, and more than anything with the echo of the poem. His eyes he didn't dare to open, not knowing what would happen if he did. But more than anything there was his skin, his skin that burnt with the remembered kisses, that felt cool from Blair's wetness where the kisses had not yet dried up, and that tingled all over with waves of passion as Blair moved down closer and closer to his groin. 

Jim drove his touch dial up, drowning the other senses, knowing that it was dangerous, but trusting Blair to save him. He had to feel Blair, to feel every single touch, every single breath, every minute movement. He had to feel the texture of Blair's lips as he kissed Jim's stomach. He had to feel the tips of Blair's fingers, callused from playing the guitar, running gently down to his groin. 

And then that moment, when they touched his cock. All feeling of his body was drained to that one area, where the fingers were moving ever so gently up and down, preparing the way for the warm wetness that followed. 

When Blair's lips touched Jim's cock, enveloping it, teeth grating the bottom side of it, Jim thought he would die. Just in that, in that simple motion, there was so much. So much pain, so much warmth, so much pleasure. He couldn't take it. He was loosing his mind, not to mention the feeling in every other part of his body. He knew he was growling, but he couldn't hear it. All he could feel was Blair's heat surround him, sucking harder and harder. His body arched up, but Jim barely felt the motion. All he knew was that if he didn't come now, he was lost. 

Blair's lips sucked on more time, harder even than before, as if knowing what Jim was feeling, and Jim felt the explosion. He didn't feel the hard milking that followed as Blair emptied him. He collapsed back on the couch, not feeling anything except his inner warmth and contentment. 

He breathed in deeply, taking in the air in, and slowly feeling came back to him. The smell of semen, Blair's heart beating hard against his, the sounds of the night. Finally he opened his eyes, adjusting quickly to the candlelit room. Gently he rolled Blair off of him, making sure the younger man didn't fall of the sofa in the process. He got up, turned around, and looked at his lover. 

At some point Jim must have pulled off Blair's boxers, because they were lying on the floor, on top of Jim's own. 

* * *

Blair woke up, the slight seeping through the open window. He shivered with the cold, and moved to pull down the afghan from the couch, to cover himself. A big hand stopped him, and a warm body climbed over his. 

"Don't." Jim's voiced whispered, and deep blue eyes looked at him. "You see, I also have a poem for you: 

Naked you are simple as one of your hands,  
Earthly, small, transparent, round.  
You have moon lines, apple pathways.  
Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba.   
You have vines and stars in your hair.   
Naked you are spacious, and yellow   
As summer in a golden church. 

Naked you are tiny,   
As one of your nails. Curved, subtle, rosy.   
Till the day is born,   
And you withdraw to the underground world   
As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores   
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves   
And becomes a naked hand again." 

The End 


End file.
